Song of Eagles (21 page)

After their capture at the old house in Stinking Springs by newly elected sheriff Pat Garrett, the Kid and his comrades were still hopeful that a new governor, Lew Wallace, would soon release them.

The Kid, Dave Rudabaugh, Charley Bowdre, Billy Wilson, and Tom Pickett had been prisoners at Las Vegas, the New Mexico Territory, to be charged in Mesilla for various crimes. But the Kid, now known across most of the region as Billy the Kid, was set to stand trial for the murder of Sheriff William Brady at Lincoln and it was there where he was headed to be hanged, after his conviction for the murder in the territorial court in Santa Fe.

The Kid had come by wagon to Lincoln. He was chained to the floor upstairs at the Lincoln County Courthouse, guarded by two men, Bob Olinger, and Deputy James Bell. Billy was lodged on the second floor in the northeast corner of the building.

Olinger enjoyed taunting the Kid. “You're gonna die by a rope, Billy Bonney,” he often said.

Bell, on the other hand, seemed less antagonistic. “I know you're a desperate character,” Bell said on one occasion, “but it seems you have a good reason for nearly everythin' you've done in New Mexico.”

Sheriff Garrett stated publicly that the Kid was “daring and unscrupulous, that he would sacrifice the lives of a hundred men who stood between him an' what he wanted.”

A friend of Olinger's came by to give Bob a similar warning that would prove to be fateful. “You think yourself an old hand in this business. But I tell you, as good a man as you are, that if that man Bonney is shown the slightest chance on earth, if he is allowed the use of one hand, or if he is not watched every moment from now until the moment he is executed, he will effect some plan by which he will murder the whole lot of you before you have time to even suspect that he has any such intention.”

Olinger simply smiled and said, “The Kid has no more chance of escaping than of going to heaven.”

Two days after his arrival, Falcon walked into the Lincoln County Courthouse and asked Olinger if he might have a word with his old friend, the Kid.

Olinger sneered. “The Kid ain't receivin' no visitors today. . . nor any other day, MacCallister.”

Falcon fixed Olinger with his cold, blue eyes. “You know, Olinger, the Kid still has a lot of friends around here. I'll bet if I were to go back to Fort Sumner and tell everyone that came into my saloon that the Kid was really having it rough over here, that you were mistreating him something awful, why, it wouldn't be too long before your horse would go lame, or your dog would get killed, or a rock would fall out of the sky onto your head. You get my drift, Olinger?”

A tiny sheen of sweat appeared on Olinger's forehead, and he shifted his gaze, afraid to look Falcon in the eye.

“Okay, gambler, but I'm gonna be standin' right behind you, listenin' to every word. I don't want no talk of escape, you hear?”

Falcon nodded, contempt for the man in his every look.

Olinger followed Falcon upstairs, after searching him and removing his sidearm. The man was so incompetent that he failed to find the derringer hidden behind Falcon's belt, but it didn't matter. Falcon had other plans for the Kid.

As they entered the upstairs room where the Kid was chained to a bolt in the middle of the floor, Falcon grinned and walked over to shake his hand.

“Howdy, Kid. How're things?”

As their hands met, Falcon slipped a folded piece of paper into the Kid's palm. The Kid didn't hesitate, just took it and stuck it in his pocket without looking at it.

“Why, I'm doin' fine, Falcon. How're you?”

“I'm well, also, Kid. Anything I can do for you, to make things easier while you're here?”

“Sure, Falcon,” the Kid said, evidently in high spirits, “Just grab and hand me Bob's gun for a moment.”

“My boy,” Olinger said, softening his tone at a sharp glance from Falcon, “you'd better tell your friend here good-bye. Your days are short.”

The Kid quipped, “Oh, I don't know—there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.”

Falcon took out a cigar and lighted it with a lucifer. “How'd things go up in Santa Fe, Kid? The newspaper reports were kind of sketchy.”

The Kid gave Falcon his cocky grin. “They had two federal indictments against me, one for killin' Buckshot Roberts, the other for the murder of Morris Bernstein. I got off on both of those.”

Falcon nodded, blowing smoke from his nose toward Olinger, who coughed and moved a slight distance away, his hand remaining on his pistol.

“Then Judge Bristol put me on trial for the killin' of Sheriff Brady, with a hand-picked jury and a defense attorney who was a member of the Santa Fe Ring, a lodge brother of Dolan's. It didn't take the jury long to figure out which way the wind blew in Santa Fe. They sentenced me to hang. And,” he said spreading his arms, “here I am.”

Falcon nodded again. “I figured it was something like that. By the way, Kid, you'll be glad to know your old friend Pat Garrett has been having trouble getting his hands on the five hundred dollar reward for bringing you in.”

The Kid grinned again. “Oh? I'm awful sorry to hear that. Why?”

“The acting governor, Rich, said his claim was without merit because the reward was for delivering you to the sheriff of Lincoln County, and Garrett never turned you over to Kimball.”

The Kid threw back his head and laughed, long and loud. “Ain't that a hoot? Garrett goes to all the trouble to help frame me for a murder I didn't commit, and it ends up costing him his blood-money.” He laughed again. “I just love a story with a happy ending, don't you Falcon?”

Falcon tipped his hat. “Don't you forget to keep up on your reading, you hear, Kid?”

The Kid slipped his hand in his pocket and winked where Olinger couldn't see him. “You bet, Falcon. I'll get right on it as soon as you leave.”

Olinger followed Falcon to the door, grinned, and said, “Your boy don't have much time left, gambler.”

Falcon turned to stare at Olinger, making the fat man break out in a sweat again.

“Tell you what, jailer,” Falcon said, pulling a hundred dollar bill from his wallet. “I'll bet you a hundred and give you two to one that the Kid outlives you.”

Olinger's grin faded and he got a sick look on his face. “What . . . what'd you say?”

Falcon pursed his lips, shook his head, then said, “Never mind. You wouldn't be able to pay off if you lost, would you?”

After Olinger slammed the courthouse door, Falcon walked to his horse, took a folded newspaper out of his saddlebags and stuck it under his arm. Whistling, he strolled over to the outhouse next to the courthouse, opened the door with the quarter moon cut out of it, and entered.

A few minutes later, he walked from the outhouse to Diablo, climbed into the saddle, and walked the horse toward Fort Sumner.

Not long after that, the Kid decided to make his move toward freedom. He pulled the note from his pocket and read it, grinned, then read it again before tearing it up and swallowing the pieces.

Later, the Kid, wearing leg irons and wrist manacles, sat in a chair near an open upstairs window of the Lincoln County Courthouse.

Olinger got up, stretching, giving the Kid a baleful stare before he spoke to Bell.

“I'm goin' across the street to get some lunch. I'll bring back somethin' for you an' this babyfaced boy.”

“Suits me,” Bell replied. “I am gettin' kinda hungry right about now.”

“Keep a sharp eye on Bonney,” Olinger said, resting his big, twelve gauge shotgun in a corner. “If he moves, kill the son of a bitch.”

“But he's all chained up, Bob,” Bell replied, inclining his head toward the Kid. “How the hell is he gonna go anyplace like this?”

“Just watch him real close. If it was up to me, I'd kill him now an' claim he was tryin' to escape. Garrett would believe us. We could say he slipped out of them bracelets somehow an' made a play for a gun.”

“That'd be outright murder, Bob. Hell, the judge's already set the date. They're gonna hang him for sure, over killin' Sheriff Brady.”

“I didn't kill Brady,” the Kid said quietly, smiling a one-sided smile. “Somebody else must have gotten lucky. I never even aimed at Brady.”

Olinger glowered at him. “Tell it to the judge, little Billy boy. Keep sayin' it over an over again 'til they hang you by the goddamn neck.”

The Kid continued to smile. “They'll never hang me, Bob. You can count on that.”

“We'll see,” Olinger replied, making for the stairway down to the street. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, remembering what the gambler had said, and gave the Kid another cold look. “You could be right, Billy boy. I may just shoot you dead before you get to trial. Me an' James will swear you was tryin' to escape.”

With that, Olinger went down the stairs and crossed the road to a small eatery inside the Wortley Hotel.

The Kid's mind worked furiously on a plan to escape while Olinger was across the street. Bell was far less likely to take deadly action.

“I need to go to the privy out back,” he told Bell. “Can't wait no longer.”

Bell came over and unlocked the chain binding the Kid to the floor, although he left the leg irons and wrist manacles in place as he pointed to the stairs.

“Go ahead, Kid,” Bell said, his right hand on his pistol butt. “I'll be right behind you, so don't try nothin' stupid.”

The Kid was planning to jump Bell after they went back up the stairway, then get the drop on Olinger as soon as he got back from lunch and handcuff him to Bell, after disarming them both. The Kid had small hands and large wrists, and he knew he could slip the cuffs off by folding his double-jointed thumbs flat against his palms.

He made his way slowly downstairs, then to the outhouse, all the while thinking about his escape. He didn't want to shoot Jim Bell if he could avoid it . . . Bell had shown him some kindness during his stay on the second floor, and he seemed like a nice enough fellow.

After using the privy, the Kid plodded slowly back up the steps, hampered by his leg irons. With his back to Bell, he slipped off one handcuff and pulled the pistol he had found wrapped in newspaper, where Falcon had hidden it.

At the top of the stairwell, the Kid whirled around and swung the pistol down across the top of Bell's head as hard as he could.

Bell fell facedown on the floor, groaning.

The Kid held the gun out, pointing it at Bell's face. “Get up off the floor,” he said, “and get these ankle chains off me.”

Bell scurried forward on hands and knees, ignoring the pistol, and grabbed the Kid's legs at the knees, throwing him onto his back.

Bell scrambled to his feet and started running down the stairs.

“Stop, Jim, or I'll have to shoot you!” the Kid cried.

Bell continued leaping down the steps. The Kid fired once with Bell's Colt, shattering stucco next to Bell's head. The guard kept running, the Kid fired again, and the deputy tumbled down the stairs with a mortal wound.

Outside, Godfrey Gauss, formerly a cook for the Tunstall cowboys, caught James Bell as he staggered away from the building with blood pouring from his chest. He collapsed in Gauss's arms and died instantly.

The Kid shuffled his shackled legs across the floor to Pat Garrett's office door, where he scooped up Bob Olinger's shotgun before making his way to the northeast corner window.

Gauss ran from the spot where he laid Bell toward the Wortley Hotel, yelling for Olinger at the top of his lungs while pointing to the second floor of the Lincoln County Courthouse, where the shot had been fired.

“Bob!” Gauss cried. “Come quick!”

Olinger appeared in the front doorway of the hotel dining room. “What the hell was that noise?” he bellowed.

“It's the Kid!” Gauss called back from the far side of the road. “The Kid has killed Jim Bell!”

Olinger ran toward the courthouse until he saw a shape in the upstairs window. “Son of a bitch!” Olinger said, coming to a sudden halt. “Looks like the bastard has killed me, too!”

The Kid stuck Olinger's shotgun out the window and aimed down. Godfrey Gauss took shelter under the porch roof of the courthouse.

“Look up, Bob!” the Kid shouted. “Look up, old boy, and see what you get!”

Olinger froze. “How the hell did you break loose from them chains?”

His answer came in the form of twin loads of heavy buckshot which Olinger had loaded himself. Olinger crumpled, his head and upper body shredded by shotgun pellets.

The Kid wasted no time. “Gauss! Bring me that pickaxe up here so I can get these chains off my feet.”

Gauss, still wary, swung a heavy pickaxe up to the second floor balcony.

But the Kid was not finished with Gauss. “Run saddle me a horse from Billy Burt's corral. Don't be too damn long about gettin' it done.”

Gauss took off in a lumbering run toward the corral, looking over his shoulder.

The Kid took the pickaxe and began smashing links between his leg irons until one line finally broke in half. Looping the ends over his belt, he walked to the north end of the hall and appeared on the balcony, where a knot of men stood watching what was going on.

The Kid stared down at Olinger's bloody body. He lifted the shotgun and smashed it on the handrail across the front of the balcony, then he tossed it to the ground near Olinger.

“Here's your gun, goddamn you!” he shouted. “You won't follow me with it any longer!”

Several spectators gave the Kid a cheer. Some carried guns, but no one attempted to aim one at him.